The beat of the metaphorical drum
by Pikachu Mituna
Summary: This is an Erisol fanfiction. Their names are changed but you'll be able to tell who is who Sollux is a demon that recently had a bad run in with someone that wanted to kick his ass and is laying in the snow. Our good friend Araida finds poor Sollux and takes him under her wings.


Beat one

Another beat of the metaphorical drum in his pain ridden mind. A sudden wave of dizziness rushed over him as his stomach lurched again. His hands shot out to grab at a nonexistent wall only for his hands to grasp nothing but air. His feet slid out from under him, and he lost his balance, crashing to the ground with a soft "thud". He could feel his entire body aching and shivering in the winter cold. The only thing he had to keep his frail body warm was his thin red and blue sweater. He decided to lay on the ground for a few minutes, it's not like anybody ever took this path to their homes. Maybe he could just stay here, in the snow, bleeding out from the back of his head, with flesh clinging to his pointed teeth and a hole in the side of his leg. Yeah, that sounded good, really nice. The sounds of the city rushed around him, dancing an untimed waltz in his head. The constant honking of cars and cabs, each rushing to get to one place, kicked at his overly sensitive eardrums. He could hear the soft crunch of the frozen snow under the feet of the humans on the frozen sidewalks. Maybe one of them would find him, in the snow, bleeding and shivering, and maybe they would call for help, or just finish him off. He prefered the earlier choice. No, wait, the pain of the open wound in the back of his head was persuading him otherwise. No, he wanted to live, had to, for now that is. Just wait a few paragraphs.

A loud honk sounded nearby, pulling him out of his near-death haze. The sound of soft footsteps disturbed the would be silence around his aching body. He heard the sound of clothes rustling, and knew that the intruder of his private space was kneeling down. A gentle hand parted the hair away from the bleeding wound in his head. He guessed the hand belonged to a female, most likely human. He hissed as her cold fingers pressed against the dried blood that clotted around the wound and matted his hair. Her hand retreated quickly at his outburst, she whispered an apology and pressed again, this time a bit more gentle. Her cold fingers sent chills up and down his spine, but they were soothing chills. He liked them. Maybe he could look at this person with kind hands, maybe she wouldn't be frightened away by the tiny bits of raw flesh stuck between his sharp, pointed, and bloodied fangs. Or maybe she would be one of those human women that carried around a bottle of pepper spray, and she would see his abnormal eyes, and she would scream in fear, causing the other humans to look and then call the police. No, now is not the time to look at her. Another pound of his head sent a shock through-out his spine. He groaned deeply and squeezed his eyes shut, not that they were open anyway, seeing as how his face was buried ear deep in now redsnow, but he squeezed them tighter. Again with the metaphorical drum pounding away in his head! It felt like a party was reaching its peak in the back of his mind, everyone on the dance floor stomping their feet, wearing cleats, and banging their hands against the walls while wearing brass knuckles to boot. He smacked an open palm against the hard snow, making the girl jump away. She muttered under her breath, something about not being used to having a living patent. He grumbled into the snow, hoping it would keep his secret. It did not. Instead took his secret and scattered it out into the world, or at least, it caused later scattering. The women cocked her head off to one side, and mumbled again under her breath.

"You really shouldn't mumble, I can't understand a word you're saying." He spoke weakly, his cocky attitude causing him to quote one of his favorite movies.

"Well, maybe, if you didn't have your head buried six feet deep in the snow, you would be able to hear me." Her tone seemed a little too soft for someone that was more used to the dead, he should know.

"Well, maybe, if you weren't fingering the hole in my head like it was your girlfriend, I would be able to get my face out of the snow."

"Okay, one, I'm not fingering the hole, I am simply pressing it. Two, I do not have a girlfriend. And three, that was coming from someone that has a hole in the back of his head and his leg." She redrew her hand as she spoke.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You seem to know what you're doing back there. Sure you don't have one?" He raised his head just enough to look at the from the corner of his eye. She was pretty, really pretty. She had long fluffy auburn hair with two small curls on the side of her head giving her a ram horn look. Her light amber eyes scrutinized him from behind a pair of cute rimless glasses. She wore a rusty red coat over her shirt and a tattered grey skirt.

"Yes I am sure I don't have a girlfriend, just as I am sure I am straight." Her tone seemed a bit on the cynical side to him. Might just be the snow melting in his ears...He sighed and propped himself on his elbows, he guessed he could trust her, if not a little, she did stop to help him on her way home.

After a few minutes of the two throwing snide comments back and forth they finally decided to call it quits and take him to her house to see if she could fix him up. She asked if he wanted to go to the hospital instead but he quickly replied with a stern, "no". So now, the two were sitting on her couch, both drinking a hot steaming cup of coco, and his leg stitched up and his head covered.

"I don't remember your name," She had set down her cup and looked at this stranger she had willingly brought into her house.

"Well you never really asked," He kept his eyes ahead and never even glanced at the woman that had willingly took him in.

"Well okay. What is your name?"

"Solomon. But you can call me Solly, or Sol," He shrugged absent mindedly.

"Nice to meet you Solomon! My name is Alexis!" She held out a small hand, her nails were neatly filed into soft curves and colored a rust red.

"Nice to meet you too Alexis," He held out his own hand, slightly larger than hers, his nails long and pointed and colored a mustard yellow.

It was from that day on that Solomon and Alexis became steadfast friends. And perhaps, one day soon, he would tell her his secret. A secret he has never told anyone before.


End file.
